


Bathtubs & Bananas

by Boji



Series: Abroad, in the air [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-06-08
Updated: 2005-06-08
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:32:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boji/pseuds/Boji
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack wished for a hot shower. And the Doctor?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bathtubs & Bananas

**Author's Note:**

> Set after _The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances_

She's a real kidder, the TARDIS. If this space lady had a tongue it would be in her cheek, which, now I come to think of it, is where the Doctor's is most days. In his cheek, though in my dreams I'd settle for it being in mine. What? You think I don't have dreams just because they're not on my sleeve, along with my military insignia? As Rose would say, get real! I have as many dreams as the next guy. People just think that mine come with a cheesy synthesized backing track and a bushel of naked extras. And, sometimes they do. But not in this case. What was I dreaming of? Simple. A shower. Hot running water and a brand-spanking-new bar of soap. The kind that smells just right when you open the packet. I'd had my last real shower at the Savoy, back in 1941. Steaming, soapy, luxurious. Running water. A true moment of luxury.

No one can hear you screaming in space and there's usually no running water either. Not even on a souped up ship like the little Chula racer I'd lost my heart to. You have to make do with sonic showers. Functional yes. Sensual? Forget it. Dressed? Naked? It makes no difference when it comes to sonics and you can forget about shampoo, soap and razors. Bacteria are zapped. Dead cells are lifted off of your skin, nails and hair before being compressed and ejected out the nearest air-vent. Sound sexy to you? If you ask me, sonic showers are about as sexy as a galactic census sweep.

When Rose first mentioned something 'bout a swimming pool, somewhere in this beautiful maze of a ship, I thought she was joshing, pulling my leg. What was it Algy used to say? Pull the other one, it's got bells on. Water is precious. More precious than fuel or armaments. Without water you're done for and your corpse stinks up fast, like yesterday's garbage. Being able to create enough water to fill a swimming pool? I figured it was either a miracle or a lie. With the way things are going these days, should have realised that a miracle was more likely.

But living through the Blitz puts you in a certain frame of mind, you know? Oh, it's not fear that you're going to get flattened by a bomb if you're not huddled up in a shelter. You get used to seizing the day, the night, or the next chap in uniform who gives you the eye. That's the normal order of business between bombing runs. I'm talking about rationing, not impending doom. Though come to think of it, rationing nearly was a sign of impending doom.

Back in London, everything was being bloody rationed. Food, soap, toilet roll. Everything but stewed cabbage, which tastes like boiled gym-socks. And the British? They took to rationing like they took to queueing. But not me. Rationing and finding ways round the ins-and-outs of that blasted system, imprints as a way of thinking. Playing cards in the mess? I'd find myself thinking about whose coupons were in the pot and what I could get for them. Jam, razor blades, olive oil. Losing at cards? I'd be looking around to see who was flush. Bed, borrow or seduce, it's a good motto to live by during a war. Doesn't matter much what decade, planet or war. Rationing? It becomes an obsession. No matter what you're doing, you're thinking about what you have, what you want and how to get hold of it. No doubt the Doctor would say it's my general outlook on most things, but well, I'm as multi-faceted as the next guy.

So let's just say I wasn't going to be all British and stoic about it. No Sir. After all, I knew that most of the other yanks in town had it far cushier than I did, even counting the Chula ship I'd tethered to Big Ben. Most of the Americans - and let's face it, if you trace my family tree back through the centuries you're just as likely to find I'm American as Canadian- most of the American troops were surviving in the dubious comfort of the Savoy hotel. Well okay, some of the US Army officers and all of the press corps. And I? Reduced to squatting in barracks when I didn't get lucky, or couldn't slip away to sleep aboard ship.

Dinner at the Savoy was where I'd first met Algy. We'd gotten to know each other on a cluttered, unmade, single bed that was the usual resting place of a photo-journalist from the Chicago Tribune. He was on the roof taking pictures. London was burning, falling down around our ears, as Algy and I got... acquainted. I don't remember the journalist's name, but I can't forget how mad he was when he found his crumpled and spunk-stained copy tangled in the bed sheets. Went on about how we'd defaced his work. I made it up to him with a bottle of champagne and a bar of chocolate, thanks to the lovely, lovely wife of some Brigadier or other. In return, my new-found friend from Chicago let me stay in his room when I was on R&amp;R, but only if he wasn't using it. He wasn't that friendly, which was a damn shame.

But, thanks to him showers were more than a distant memory. And I adored them. It's like the Doctor and what he calls a properly brewed cup of tea, or Rose and her addiction to those round, nutty, Ferrero Rocher chocolates. We all turn to something or other for comfort. Me? I jones for hot and cold running water, soap and soft, white fluffy towels. And I've been known to make off with hotel bathrobes. I lost my Savoy monogrammed bathrobe together with my ship, but hey, it could be worse. I could have been wearing it at the time.

There's nothing better than showering the day off your back. Getting those niggly memories out from between your shoulder blades. Someone should have warned me that a ship which generated a telepathic force field, no doubt whispered sweet nothings to her lord and master, 24/7. If they had I wouldn't have been caught shaking hands with myself in the shower. Soap suds trailing down my stomach, my dick gripped nice and tight in my fist, my thumb stroking, smoothly over my cock head.

In the TARDIS there are no drafts when someone opens an interior door. There was no way I could have known he was there standing in the doorway. No, not standing, leaning, lounging. And his brilliant eyes? Fixed to some indeterminate point on the wall. Didn't look remotely surprised to find me spanking the space-monkey. So there I am, leaning against the shower wall, left hand on my cock, my right arm reaching round behind me, wrist turned, fingers circling, pressing, sliding in to where I needed them most. He didn't even blink. And damn it, I wouldn't have minded so much if he was interested, but he just stood there, stoic and cryptic like the damn sphinx. Horny or embarrassed? It was a toss-up as to what I felt more acutely. My fingers stilled and I tried cheesy lines out in my head.

Come here often?

Want to give me a hand?

Like what you see?

Wanna lend me your banana?

What did I say? Nothing. I'm not even sure he gave me the once over with those stunning blue eyes of his. Just scratched his left hand slightly, nodded as if to say carry on and walked out closing the door.

That would have been it. I'm sure, you know. He would never have said anything and it would be another thing in my life that never happened. Instead as I took a back-step in the shower my heel landed on the bar of soap I'd dropped when I'd needed both hands free and I slipped, lost my balance and went flying. Falling without a chute.

Don't remember if I yelped. Do remember thinking I should have wished for a bathtub instead. You do know what they say? Be careful what you wish for.

There was a flash of bright light as I fell, or I whacked my head against the tiles. I vaguely heard a male voice calling my name and then, with a splash I was wet and warm, and I could smell soap.

"Jack?" The voice was urgent, anxious. "You daft plonker, you better not have cracked your skull open. Jack!" Worried tones, gave way to muttering and sarcasm. "No sign of concussion? What do you know? You're a bloody screwdriver!"

I opened my eyes and looked around. The shower room had rippled, shimmied and changed into a bathroom complete with claw-foot tub, its curved interior currently cradling my bruised backside.

The Doctor had crossed the room and was crouching by the side of the tub. "You okay?" he asked, looking visibly concerned. "Didn't hurt anything... vital?" There was a slight grin threatening to break out of the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah, just bruised my..."

"Pride?" he asked the smile blooming on his lips.

"Want to check me over, Doctor? Prescribe some TLC?" I twisted my body in the soapy water, my bruised hip rising above the water line. Wasn't the only part of me that was rising. "The water's warm, want to come on in? Help me... find the soap?" I could hear the slight breathlessness in my own voice, my mouth was dry. Desiring the unattainable is always a bitch.

"Not much for swimming, me," he said gently.

"At least not in bathtubs?" Why is it the gentle let-downs always sting more? It's like antiseptic on a cut with no one to kiss it better. "That's your exit cue."

"Jack..."

"Right, so this is where you pat me on the head and tell me," I affected a mediocre English accent "I'm a good lad."

His hand reached out towards me, hovered momentarily over the water and then quickly, nimble fingers reached down and flicked water at me. He splashed my face and I spluttered.

"Are you?"

Cryptic? Flirting? Sometimes I just can't tell with the Doctor. "Good? Oh yeah," I grinned, holding his gaze. I knew that I was pushing the envelope. Was willing to push it till it ripped.

It's an old, trite saying, that eyes are the windows of the soul. Had never really believed it myself, you know? But in his eyes? Well, look deep enough and it's almost as if you can see the cosmos dance. It's damn beautiful, and scary. But that was undoubtedly only part of the problem. He had the saddest eyes I'd ever seen.

"I'm not... I can't." There it was. Withdrawal, reticence. Self imposed distance. He does it to all of us. Even Rose who he obviously cares for so deeply.

"Because of Rose?" I asked.

"No." The ghost of that gentle smile was back on his face. "No, 'cos of me. I can't give you what you want."

"And I can't give you what you need, is that it?"

The Doctor shrugged in reply.

It's not that people think I'm stupid. It's obvious I'm not. Instead, they convince themselves I'm shallow. Usually it's easier to let them think so. But yeah, maybe reaching out to touch him wasn't my cleverest idea. It was so easy though, to reach out and touch his cheek, cup his jaw and feel the slight roughness of growing stubble.

"Still on a mission to seduce?" he asked.

However this mercurial man may wish otherwise, he was alive. We all were, despite the close calls we'd had lately. He didn't flinch when I touched him. Didn't move. Just went totally, icily still. My first instinct? Retreat. Retract my hand and never invade his personal space again. I rode out that impulse and slid my hand down to rest against the back of his neck.

"I was thinking more of solace, as long we keep it on the QT."

Did he sweat? Could I make him sweat? Would he let me kiss and lick down the back of his neck and across those strong shoulders? Sometimes I think he carries the known universe propped up on only the one, like a six pack of coke or beer. If I hadn't had my hand on the back of his neck I would never have felt him move. As it was, that slight movement under my palm had me leaning out of the tub and up. Before the desire, or the thought behind the desire had formed, my lips were pressing against his, my tongue was licking against the corner of his mouth, coaxing, asking for... acceptance.

Stillness, perfect sculpted stillness and then he moved, quickly decisively, both of his agile, broad hands coming up to cup my face. I knew then, in the back of my mind, that he could have chosen differently. Could have placed those hands of his around my jugular and squeezed down just as efficiently. Instead his thumb stroked my jaw line and he fell into my kiss.

Kissing the Doctor? I figure looking into the heart of the TARDIS feels the same. Oh, once you get past your head spinning and ignore the signals from your knees that are telling you your cartilage is turning to jello, it's bliss. Warm, bright bliss. Better than any illegal substance peddled on any populated planet I've ever visited. You know, maybe that's why it was so easy to slide my hands up to his shoulders, to slide them inside the leather jacket that he wears like battle armour and half coax, half wrestle it off down his arms. He broke the kiss off as the leather puddled onto the floor, together with a good amount of bath-water.

"Told you, I'm not..."

He looked flushed, despite the coolness of his skin against mine, his mouth soft and swollen, as if my kiss stung. "We don't have to swim. We could paddle."

The bright glorious grin was back and it was all for me. "Don't take no for an answer do you?" he asked in exasperation.

"Sometimes. Not often. Not when I think I'm right." I softened my tone deliberately, "not when I don't think I'm hurting anyone."

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it. A heartbeat and a half later, those Doc Martens of his were lying on the floor by the half-sodden jacket and he'd climbed into the tub complete with jeans, socks and the green grey jumper he was wearing. Sank down in the water and let the warmth soak into his clothes, and beyond into his skin. I twisted and moved so that I was sitting in the tub behind him. The Doctor? Sitting between my spread legs, his back against my bare chest, my legs cradling his body, the wet denim stroking my naked thighs as he drew his legs up. So, maybe my fantasy life resembled 1970's porn films. Reality wasn't looking half bad either.

How does that saying go again? Silence reigned and we all got wet? Ah, I've got it, I can resist everything but temptation.

We sat in silence as the bath-water slowly chilled and my blood warmed. Warmed, stiffened and throbbed against wet denim as the last of the Time Lords slid down slightly and leant his head against my shoulder. I was struggling to figure out where I could put my hands, without him fleeing the sanctuary of this claw-footed bathtub when he spoke.

"I suppose you want a hand with that?" he asked.

I couldn't tell if he was teasing me as usual. Flirting or serious? I had no idea. "Who me? Nope." I wrinkled my nose. "New century resolution. Deferred gratification's the way to go."

Lightheaded without the help of good champagne I let my cock rest, taut against my belly. Tried to ignore the fact that it if I moved my hips just a little I could rub against a certain seam in his jeans.

When his shoulders first started shaking, the fluttering in my stomach soured making me nauseous. For one horrible moment I thought he was crying, and then as he turned in my arms I realised he was grinning like a loon, giggling like a happy child. Giggling's wonderfully contagious.

"That a water gun?" he asked, cheesily between gulps of air and laughter.

"Nope. And it's not soniced-up either." We sat in the bath like a couple of drunk tramps, laughing like lunatics. Apt that, for if I fell for this being, well it would be like worshipping the moon, wouldn't it?

That's what Rose doesn't get, the fact that he's far more complicated than a human man, of any age. He's seen more, survived more and endured more than I could ever pray not to. And for me it's part of what makes him so attractive. Sex is easy, people. Love, that's the clincher. Love and Fate, spinning their web across planets, time and dimensions. Oh, and let's not forget bathtubs.

THE END


End file.
